


Remains

by HopeCoppice



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Even more minimal Hastur, Existential Crisis, M/M, Minimal Ligur, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Temporary Character Death, like seriously very little
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:48:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26275165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeCoppice/pseuds/HopeCoppice
Summary: Crowley reacts strongly to the sight of the puddle that was Ligur.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 74





	Remains

**Author's Note:**

> Random little angsty one-shot. Enjoy!

They stumble from the bus, tired but triumphant. The prophecy doesn't bode well for them, but Aziraphale is determined not to think about it. They have saved the world. Well, the world has been saved, at any rate. Surely that should be comfort enough, as they face their own fates? More importantly, they have tonight, as Heaven and Hell wrestle their disappointed armies into obedience. They have tonight, and only tonight, and Aziraphale doesn't intend to waste it on fear. 

His resolve lasts him all the way up in the lift, all the way through Crowley's front door. But then Crowley turns ash-grey and staggers sideways, clutching at the wall for support as he doubles over. Aziraphale reaches for him, helpless, as his beloved demon retches fruitlessly.

"Crowley, what's wrong?"

Crowley can't seem to collect himself, so Aziraphale follows the line of his former gaze and looks for himself at what exactly has brought Crowley low.

It's a puddle, a few melted remnants of boot leather and raincoat the only indication that this was once a living being. The water still smells faintly of benediction; Aziraphale remembers another awful night, whispering a blessing before filling a Thermos, the same one he now sees abandoned on the desk.

"Oh, Crowley." It all makes sense, now. Crowley has fought so hard, and now that he's home, his own fate is staring him in the face. They are both destined to die tomorrow, and then this is all that will be left of Crowley.

Aziraphale suddenly feels quite unwell himself.

"'S all right," Crowley gasps unconvincingly, "it's all gonna be all right, angel, we'll think of something."

"Of course we will," Aziraphale tells him, "of course we will." But all his plans in the past have depended on the last-gasp hope of Heaven's assistance; they can't help him now, won't help him, never really have.

"We'll think of something," Crowley repeats stubbornly, and Aziraphale gathers him into his arms, pressing a kiss into his hair. This is their only chance to be together, and it's spoiled, the moment so terribly wrong for anything romantic. Aziraphale won't have this be wrong, he'd rather not take their relationship up a notch at all than have it be less than perfect for Crowley. 

Crowley himself seems disinclined to pursue that line of thought, already muttering the prophecy over and over as Aziraphale guides him away from the stain. He'd like to miracle the mess away as a gesture of goodwill, but fears it might be insensitive; besides, he's wary of performing uninvited miracles in Crowley's flat. And with their respective offices on the warpath… best not to draw unnecessary attention.

"I don't know what the witch expected us to do about this," Crowley snarls, and Aziraphale realises there is still a way to show Crowley what he means to him. One of their love languages, after all, has always been  _ rescue. _

"We'll think of something," he tells Crowley firmly, because the alternative is unthinkable and he will therefore no longer think about it, and Crowley nods, weary but trusting.

"Course we will."

* * *

They  _ do _ think of something, of course, with Agnes' help, and then they go to the Ritz to celebrate. When they leave, a little giggly from the sheer quantity of champagne they’ve consumed, they pause to consider their next move.

“Back to the bookshop?” Aziraphale offers, and Crowley grimaces.

“Rather not. It still… I can still smell the smoke.”

“Ah. Right, yes. Of course.” He’d hoped they could stick together for a little longer, but he understands. Crowley has been through a lot, too, today. Perhaps he wants some time to himself, to collect himself.

“You could come back to mine instead, if you like.” Crowley isn’t looking at him. Perhaps Aziraphale is too slow to react, because Crowley stumbles on. “Or, no, right, you’ll want to check everything’s-”

“No.” Aziraphale  _ does  _ want to check on the bookshop, but not nearly as much as he wants to go home with Crowley. They have time, now, potentially infinite time to explore their relationship and one another, and Aziraphale doesn’t want to waste a second of it. Besides- “You said it was fine, and I trust you.”

“Horrible idea. Demon, after all.” But Crowley’s smiling, such a small quirk of the lips that Aziraphale wonders if he’s even aware of it.

“There’s nowhere I’d rather be than by your side, my dear.” And that’s terribly sentimental, perhaps, but it’s the first opportunity he’s had to really  _ say  _ these things. He’ll learn to moderate his tone, he’s sure.

They walk into Crowley’s flat and Aziraphale takes the opportunity to pause on the threshold and look around. Last night, they’d been rather preoccupied; this evening, he has the time to appreciate his surroundings at his leisure, to notice the eagle lectern and the statue of two angels… ah, of two angels, whatever they’re doing. He’s so intrigued by the latter - which he’s sure Crowley would  _ say  _ is of good and evil fighting, or some such nonsense, but which he strongly suspects was intended quite differently by the sculptor - that it takes him a moment to register the choked sound from Crowley’s hidden office, and a moment more to realise what it means.

He rushes to Crowley’s side and finds him leaning heavily against the doorframe, making stifled noises that might be sobs or might be an attempt not to bring up all that champagne. Worried, Aziraphale searches the room for threats, but finds nothing. There’s nothing amiss, nothing to cause this sudden change in the demon. Still, it’s been a long day for them both; perhaps it’s simply catching up to him.

“Crowley?” He dares to rest a hand between his shoulder blades, as he wouldn’t have dared to just days before. “What’s wrong, dear boy?”

“‘S gone.” Crowley gestures at the floor in front of them with a trembling hand. “‘S nothing left.”

_ Ah. _ Aziraphale abruptly realises that  _ nothing amiss  _ is indeed a significant change since the morning. When they’d departed on their separate journeys to the park - when Aziraphale had locked up and left, looking for all the world like his infernal counterpart - there had still been a disgusting puddle of demonic remains on the floor. Now the place is as clean and neat as Crowley seems inclined to keep it, and that’s unexpected. Unexpected is unsettling, in this instance.

“Well, that’s-” He’s not sure what to say about that. “I’m sure it’s not a bad sign-”

“If I’d- if we hadn’t swapped.” Crowley stops, gasps in a breath.  _ “Nothing. _ I’d be  _ nothing,  _ not even a stain on the floor-”

“But we did swap,” Aziraphale reassures him, trying to hold back his own horror at the thought. They’ve never really had to think about what might be left if one of them was permanently destroyed, but Aziraphale has always vaguely assumed there might be a smoking crater left, or a pillar of salt. The puddle was disgusting, but not unexpected; to learn that when a demon is destroyed they are destroyed completely, without even a trace of moisture left as testament to their existence… well. He watched the little usher demon dissolve to nothing, in Hell, so perhaps this shouldn’t have come as such a shock.

It’s a shock all the same, at least to Crowley.

“Sorry- it’s not- it doesn’t-”

“Of course it matters, Crowley.” Aziraphale hauls him closer, wraps him in his arms and his wings and the protective fury that rages within him at the thought of Crowley, his Crowley, being washed away down the drain. How  _ dare  _ Hell try to take this demon from him? “But you’re safe now. We’re safe.”

“Ngk.” Aziraphale eases up a little, allowing Crowley a little more space to breathe, but Crowley just wraps himself around him in return.

It seems, somehow, like the time to finally say it.

“I love you, you know,” he admits, aiming for casual and no doubt missing by several miles. Crowley tenses up, hands bunching into fists as they cling to the fabric of Aziraphale’s clothes, and for a moment Aziraphale thinks he’s upset him even more. Perhaps, after all, it’s too late. Perhaps when Aziraphale failed to admit to his feelings before their trials, Crowley decided the angel was too cowardly. Unworthy of him. Aziraphale certainly doesn’t feel worthy of Crowley, sometimes. And then the demon speaks.

“Sssss mutual,” he tells him, and then, “love you.”

“Then come away, love,” Aziraphale beckons, and leads Crowley across the flat, far from the lack of puddle, to the single comfortable spot in the whole place. He takes him to bed, and Crowley goes willingly, to be held and kissed and loved with all the fierce adoration of six thousand years.

* * *

It’s early the next morning that Aziraphale gets peckish and extricates himself from his love’s serpentine grasp. He fetches himself some bread and jam from the flat’s pristine kitchen - he expects to find it, and so he does - before drifting over to the window. Gazing absently down at the street, he notices a figure half-hidden in the pre-dawn shadows. Lurking.

He wonders, briefly, if he should wake Crowley. Would seeing that particular creature of darkness restored be a comfort or a concern? But before he can make his decision, the figure skulks away, to be met by another at the corner of the road. The second figure jumps, evidently startled, and then slowly, cautiously, begins to advance on the first.

Aziraphale turns away, feeling as if he has been spying on something very private, and returns to Crowley’s bedroom to finish his snack in the doorway, watching his demon sleep peacefully. When the last of his bread is gone and he’s certain he’s free of crumbs, he slips beneath the sheets again and feels Crowley wrap himself around him.

Despite everything, the world seems more right than it has ever been.


End file.
